Emily looked at him carefully. ‘You didn’t tell her, did you?’
‘No.’
‘So nice the way you two get along.’
‘She’s the one asked me to have you at short notice.’
‘Excuse me for messing up your weekend plans.’
‘OK, first, I don’t have any plans. Second, if I did I’d change them for you. Third, I’ve sometimes found your mother is happier not knowing stuff.’
She raised her hands. ‘You’re not getting any argument from me. She’s hardly let me out of the house in the past two weeks.’
He glanced at her, checking for any sign of anxiety between the casual, don’t-give-a-shit exterior. He found none.
‘We’ll have a great time, Pumpkin. It’s good to see you.’
She reached over and put her hand on his. ‘You too, Dad,’ she said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Black Mountains, Wales 1086
With the worst of the winter behind them, Rhiannon’s mountain community began to turn their thoughts to spring. As before, a restlessness visited the villagers. No longer hemmed in with ice or snow, and with days lengthening, the possibility of leaving their hilltop hideout was once again a matter for discussion. Some feared they would be set upon by de Chapelle’s men if they were seen. Others thought the nobleman would have more important things to worry about and they might be able to leave the valley and find new lives in the world. Others still yearned to return to their own homes. Their most recent scout - Glyn - had returned with the news that both the village and the great house were empty. It seemed the new Lord of Cwmdu preferred the grander home that Talgar provided.
For her own part, Rhiannon would be happy to stay on the mountain for the rest of her life. She and Tudor had enjoyed a winter of passion, and she had no wish to break the spell under which they existed. She knew that, however strong their bond, the demands anddangers of the outside world would test their love and threaten their happiness. They had hidden away from the turmoil the Normans had brought with them. While Welsh princes and Norman Barons and English Lords fought for possession of land and titles, Rhiannon’s community had remained apart, secret and safe. The life path that Tudor had been following before that fateful day in Talgar might call him back were they to venture from their hideaway. She knew such thoughts were selfish and of little consequence to the rest of the community, but she had only just discovered what it meant to be a young woman in love, and she was reluctant to put that part of herself to one side.
One sun-filled morning, she and Tudor took his horse and rode away from the makeshift village, on an errand of gathering herbs and mosses. Such tasks had become their habit, to play their part in the work of the community, while also allowing them the privacy they craved. Both of them were so popular with the children that there was scant possibility of any time alone unless they took themselves off, and only by doing so at some speed could they dissuade the more determined boys and girls from following them.
Although the year had not yet reached the spring equinox, small plants and flowers had begun to emerge from their winter slumbers. Trees were beginning tobud, the tough mountain grass beginning to grow, and the modest flock of ewes were fat with lambs. Tudor urged his horse to quicken its pace across the ridge of the hill before steering it down the now familiar sheep track that led to the stream and the glade where they had gathered lichen together for the first time. Sunlight fell through the leafless branches of the trees that overhung the little river, so that the water flashed and dazzled as it fell over broad rocks in its hurry to descend the mountain.
Rhiannon slid down from the horse and left Tudor to tie the fine animal loosely to a tree so that it might doze while they foraged. Not for the first time she sighed at the shabby state of her clothes. She had done her best to repair her one good dress, but all her garments were frayed, patched and faded. She wished that, just once, she could wear finery with rich fabrics and glowing colours and jewels so that she would be pretty for Tudor. As if reading her thoughts he stepped close behind her, carefully placing a primrose in her hair.
‘A garland for my princess,’ he said, before slipping his arms around her, pulling her to him, nuzzling into her neck. ‘If I live to be a hundred,’ he murmured, ‘I will never tire of the smell of you. You cast a spell on me.’
His hot breath on her skin gave her a delightful shiver. The thrill of it kept at bay the worry his words sparked within her. She knew he loved her, and yet she had not found the courage to tell him the whole truth about herself. She still did not know the answer to the question she had asked of Mamgi all those weeks ago:can he love a witch?
She placed her hands over his as he hugged her. ‘Mayhap I will cast a spell to keep you here with me upon this mountain, so that you never wish to leave, no matter what.’
He laughed at this. ‘That you have already done!’
‘An easy thing to say when there is no alternative offered to you. What if it is decided we should go from this place? What then?’
‘Then we shall go from it together.’ He spun her round to face him, kissing the tip of her nose. ‘Do not think to cast me aside so easily, mistress. Are you planning to replace me with a Welsh Prince, perhaps?’ he teased.
She wished she could join in with his playfulness, but she knew in her heart that the moment had come to speak plainly with him. Better he hear the truth from her own lips, and better he was free to make his choices knowing all there was to know. A thin wind tugged at her braided hair, reminding her that winterhad not yet finished with them entirely. Despite the glowing pale gold of the primrose in her hair and beneath the trees, the ground was mostly bare and hard, and few birds darted among the undressed branches. Just as the year was not yet safely delivered to the gentle embrace of spring and all it promised, so Tudor’s love for her had not yet had to survive the test of the truth. She looked into his dark eyes, her blood quickening at what she saw there.
‘Can you truly love a person,’ she asked, ‘if you do not truly know them?’
He smiled ‘Is not true love a matter of faith and trust, rather than knowledge?’
‘Then surely that trust demands honesty. Openness. Truth.’
He frowned at her, puzzled. ‘Why so serious, on such a fine spring morning?’
‘But it is not yet spring. Can you not feel the chill in the wind? Such a sharpness as could still carry off a frail grandfather or a sickly babe. Can you not sense that danger stalks us yet, just as surely as the wolves on the hunt, or the soldiers giving chase?’ She pulled back from him a little, needing to distance herself from the influence of his glorious body so that her mind might rule her heart.
He looked about him. ‘I see no wolves. There are no soldiers here this day.’
